


i know heaven's a thing (i go there when you touch me, honey)

by thedevil_yaknow



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019), Harley Quinn (Comics), Poison Ivy (Comics)
Genre: F/F, self-indulgent ramblings, southern poison ivy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26980918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevil_yaknow/pseuds/thedevil_yaknow
Summary: a self-indulgent au in which i have given Harley my job and a hot woman to thrist over
Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 20
Kudos: 139





	1. confessions

**Author's Note:**

> smut comes at the end :)

There was no exact moment where Harley knew it all went wrong. Where all the warmth of her good intentions wrapped a cold, cruel hand around her and pulled her into something she had only ever seen on television. 

No, Harley couldn’t pinpoint the moment where she no longer had her own means of survival. No money of her own, no friends to turn to. She couldn’t put her finger on the moment she knew it was all too much. Perhaps the moment she felt the final, hot bruise forming across her cheek and the ringing in her ear deafening the voice in front of her. Maybe when he was crawling on top of her body as she lay still in bed that night – biting at her with jagged teeth and low grunts full of hurried satisfaction. 

Harley didn’t remember how she got home that night. The vision in her left eye clouded and a stagger in her step. Not from injury but from exhaustion. She might not have remembered stumbling onto her parent's doorstep, tapping lightly on the door, but she remembered the look on her father’s face as he swung open the door. The laughter on his lips stopping abruptly, the smile on his face that dropped like a stone, heavy with questions and regret. She remembered her mother coming up behind him asking who was at the door. Remembered her father opening his arms for her, bringing her into the warmth of home once again. Not a care in his mind about the blood that was sticking to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. 

Oh no, Harley couldn’t tell anyone where it all went wrong, where she lost herself to a man who’s touch stung like venom and the promises of a tomorrow that never came. 

Harley couldn’t tell anyone where sleepless nights became sound or when exactly the crying stopped – clinging to her father as her mother wrapped her in fleece, comforting her with a gentle touch on her back. She couldn’t tell her when sleeping ‘til 11 became early morning breakfasts with her parents. When laughter started to fill her days instead of the harsh growls of a bitter man. When she no longer flinched when her father raised his hand to pull her in or when she started to smile more, despite the healing crack in her bottom lip. 

For all of the “couldn’t tell you’s” Harley held onto, she knew exactly when her life shifted into a new gear, when those “couldn’t tell you’s” started to fade into “please’s” and whispers of “I need you” were breathed into her ear. When fingers grabbed onto her blonde hair and pulled her into a moment of sweetness. When the moans of her name began to swaddle her up and hold onto her like a desperate first love – the way a first love is supposed to feel. 

Breakfast came as it did every day, with her Ma dancing happily to all the best 80’s hits and barely avoiding almost-too-crispy bacon. Harley shuffled into the kitchen, a yawn escaping her mouth before slumping over into the seat across from her Pa. 

Harley watched as his blue eyes looked up and over the mornin’ paper – he didn’t really read it, just chuckled at the comics, but Harley would never tell him she knew that. 

“I’m gonna have to get ya some actual clothes, I think, Harleen”, he jokingly scolded her. It wasn’t the first time he had joked about her preferred form of dressing. Normally she’d clad herself in shorts, left over in the drawers of her old room from her days of gymnastics. Back when her dreams were pure, innocent. Chocked to the brim with ideas of medals and a family of her own, a one-day career full of helpful phrases like “how does that make you feel?” and “that’s our time”. 

“You leave our baby alone, Nick”, her mother playfully interjected as she brought Harley her regular coffee. Harley popped up her hands in a “gimme” motion as her mother approached her, she let out a playful pout followed by a delighted giggle as her mother sat the cup in front of her. 

Harley grabbed her mug – pink and riddled with faded hearts, chipped black text reading “best grandmother ever”, a hand-me-down of a hand-me-down and as old as the young woman herself. 

She ignored the scorching sensation on her tongue as she gulped down a drink she knew was too big. The need for caffeine outweighing the need to wait for reprieve from the boiled coffee. Nothin’ fancy, not in the Quinzel home. Coffee was a ritual here. Dawn would come, her Pa would make his way to the kitchen, throw on a grocery store blend – generally whatever was on sell that week – and wait impatiently as the well-aged Bunn would steam to life and brew a _perfect_ 10 cups. The coffee was great, sure, caffeine always was no matter what the delivery method, but what Harley really loved was the smell that permeated the house. Several pours of a sickeningly sweet creamer later and a good thirty-minute sipping session, that was the Quinzel way. 

As Harley’s tongue cooled down, she finally spoke, her morning voice breaking through low hum of “Love is a Battlefield” and sizzling bacon next to overdone eggs.   
“Nah, Ma. I think Pa is right”, she shot a glance up to her father, one fluffy eyebrow quirked up in suspicion. “- for once”, she added quickly before sticking her tongue out playfully at the man who let out a hearty chuckle in return. 

“Ouch! Your daughter is _mean_ , Sharon”, he poked back, the smile never leaving his jolly face. “See how she treats her ol’ man?”   
“She gets that from you, dear”, Sharon laughed as she carried in plates of eggs and bacon and _clanked_ them down on the old wooden table. 

“Seriously, though”, Harley started again, pulling her legs up in a crisscross position under her – pulling herself close. “I think I need to get to work, start savin’ some money...move out, m-maybe”, she swallowed hard as she stuttered out the last part of her sentence. Through the months of being home with her family they had never once asked questions. They never pried into Harley’s plans, or lack thereof. Never asked her more than “How are you?” or “do you need anything?”, laced with genuine care and concern. 

Nick broke the silence. “Well, Harleen”, he sipped is black coffee and dropped the paper he pretended to read. “If that’s what you want, we will make it happen.” 

“I just need my truck”, she spoke matter-of-factly. “Betty” was left over from a previous life. A dented, broken and scratched 1972 Chevy Cheyenne. At the time her Pa pushed it home to her, it was hope. Something to build up, to get her out – a piece of her independence, a thing to come. However, that was before Jack. Before that dented, rusted and beaten blue and white box of metal became a twisted reflection of the girl herself. “Jus’ gotta getitup ‘n’ runnin’!”, her mouth full of eggs and toast, her mind swirling with images of a younger Harley – a girl standing in the grass, barefoot, watching her Pa drag the truck into the driveway. 

Harley barley heard her father yelling for her through the music blaring in her ears. The adrenaline of her workout pumping through her veins. At first, she thought she imagined the muffled ring of her name coming through the house until a sharp whistle broke through the noise of her music. Her father’s signature “come here” whistle. A piercing noise that would break through any carnival or late-night party. She knew what it meant, too – she was being summoned by the old man himself. 

Harley jumped to her feet from her position on the floor. Crunches were her least favorite part of the morning. She secretly praised her father’s timing as she ran into the morning air from the front door. The sweat on her body drying almost immediately. 

“Pa?”, she questioned, removing her headphones one at a time and draping them around her neck. Metal banged from the garage, swiftly followed by a string of colorful swears. Harley knew where cussin' fell, her father followed. She jogged to the garage, her cropped top sticking to her sweaty shoulders, the burn in her abdomen resigning her to a slow pace. 

Harley rounded the open garage door to find “Betty” sputtering to life, hood popped open and a stream of whispered swears fell into the rattling engine. 

“Pa?”, Harley tried again, softer this time. Nick shot up, banging his umber hair against the metal hood - “Goddammit!” - before it fell shut with a loud bang.   
“Harley-girl!”, Nick ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it hard trying to relieve the sting on his head. “I’m glad you finally decided to join me.” 

“Sorry, daddy”, a word she rarely used – reserved for her most vulnerable moments, moments when she felt small in his presence again – protected. “Whatcha doin’?”, she moved towards the truck, vibrating to life. She ran her small hands across the metal, years of life, chipped paint, under her fingertips. 

Her father made is way to the driver’s side of the ol’ beat up vehicle. “Well, I thought we might take the ol’ girl out for a spin”, he didn’t meet Harley’s eyes as he spoke. “If you’re up for it?” 

Harley’s only response was a sweaty, cool, hug, throwing herself around her dad’s neck, practically hanging from the taller man’s frame. 

One, two, then three laps around the block, hittin’ a smooth 60 MPH was exactly what Harley needed. Windows down and the warm spring air moving her sloppy pony tail whipping her neck and the shared silence of the drive with her father. 

As Harley let “Betty” rattled into the smooth driveway, her Ma was waiting out on the porch for them, waving fondly as she leaned against the railing, a long cigarette in her fingers. As the truck doors creak closed, Nick’s voice breaks Harley from her bliss. 

“Harleen, I was thinkin’, why don’t ya come work with me for a while?”, Harley’s face was a clear read – confusion. She hadn’t picked up a power tool in literal years and her Pa’s business had really taken off while she was away – Hell, he had worked with almost every contracting crew this side of the east coast. He did it all, electrical, plumbing, rehabbing old properties for profit... real HGTV shit, y’know? 

“Pa, I don’t know if I can -”   
“Can’t never could do nothin’, Harleen”, with that he added a gentle smile. That was her Pa. Never pushing, just the right amount of guidance – a gentle push. Somehow always knowing what she needed. Parents are funny like that sometimes.   
“Seriously, puddin’, just think about it, okay? I’ll start ya out with the boys at a decent wage. Get everythin’ going’ all official.” 

She didn’t say anything, but Nick was climbing up the porch pulling Sharon into a loud hug, making obnoxious kissing noises into her neck as she laughed. Harley watched her family, somehow so supportive... and for nothing in return. 

The morning came quickly. Ma’s music moving through the lively halls of the Quinzel household. There was a calmness behind it all, a fresh start waiting right there for Harley hind the threshold of the kitchen that morning. All she had to do was reach out and take it.   
“I’ll do it”, Harley spoke with her mouth full – a regular occurrence. Swallowing down a bite of her breakfast sausage with a large gulp of warm, creamy coffee. French vanilla overtaking her senses.   
Nick didn’t offer any words, just a small “hmm” behind his mug of coffee and a smile pulling at his stubbly cheeks. 


	2. second opinion

That’s how it goes, a month of piling beat up tools her Pa slipped to her into the back of her truck. Music on her radio, Bluetooth connector plugged into the old cigarette lighter, threatening to disconnect with every rocky bump. Windows down, sun on her pale arm, tattoos shining in the light. Harley finally felt freedom.

Every day she came home with her hands dirtier than before, her independence falling into her hands like sawdust dancing around her like confetti. Her smiles come more frequently than before, toothy and wide. Nick shows up like clockwork every day, a sweet flavored Red Bull in one hand, a power bar in the other. Harley takes them with a smile and a snide comment – the men think she’s funny. How she cracks inappropriate jokes with them and giggles loudly as she uses the nail gun. 

That’s it, their routine becomes second nature and for the first time in a long time, Harley feels like she’s on the edge of something. She doesn’t look behind her shoulder as she walks down the street to her favorite coffee shop. She doesn’t stay up at night listening to every creak of her parents’ home. 

Routine was exactly what she needed, familiar faces and places she knew.

That was, until one morning in the middle of April, as she stood, leaning against her truck – baby blue painting fading more under the beating sun with each passing minute. He’s late. Nick is a lot of things, but late is not one of them. As if on cue with her wondering mind, Harley’s phone releases a loud  _ briiiinnnnggg _ _ ~  _ from the pocket of her overalls. __

Harley fumbles to answer it, dropping the screen face down on the gravel driveway under her before hurriedly grabbing it from the ground. 

“Pa! Hey!”, she breathes out excitedly. “Where ya at, ol’ man? I’ve been here for like, 10 minutes.” She leans further against “Betty”, her denim clad thighs dragging down warm metal. The old girl creaks at the movement, the quiet air swallowing her words.    
_“_ _Puddin_ _’! I can’t make it -”_ , she doesn’t allow him to finish his thought.   
“What? _Why?!_ I’m already here, Pa”, she knows she sounds like a brat, but the disappointment is real.

There’s a small sigh from the man on the other end of the line, he works hard. Harley knows she’s not acting fair.    
“ _Harley-girl, I can’t make it. I’m stuck here - “_ , he raises his voice loudly so the men can hear him. “- _WITH THESE DUMBASSES!”_   
Harley hears the crew of men in the background start to speak up, arguing their points as to why they are most certainly _not_ dumbasses. Their robust voices hollering over one another for dominance. She can’t help but give a little giggle. 

“Listen, Harleen, you can do this. You’re good”, she hears him smile over the phone. “ Ya gotta be! I taught  ya everythin ’  ya know, darlin’.” 

Harley doesn’t speak, opts to instead shove her hand into the pocket of her worn-out overalls.    
“Ya got this one, kiddo”, the phone clicks. He’s gone before she can protest again. She moves her lips to blow a lose strand of blonde hair out of her face before raising up from her slumped position against the truck. 

She glances around the property, letting her blue eyes dart from one side to the other. There's no doubt about it, the house is a real piece of shit on the outside, but it has plenty of acreage sparsely covered in several interesting plants and trees. Harley’s eyes make their way to the back of the property. Several white bee hives live next to, what she believes to be a green house. It’s not traditional in the sense, just a bunch of windows and old glass doors slapped together. It’s adorable in its own right, painted white and holding greenery in every inch. Green vines hang from everything they can grasp, plants sprout from various pots, things she doesn’t recognize. The love pours out of the green, through the glass windows... It's clear that someone has put in a lot of work outside. Making everything just right – just cute enough but functional nonetheless. The house on the other hand, that’s another story. The old building appears dull in comparison to the lush yard. Left untouched, waiting to be brought back from the dead with a loving hand. A hand Harley could lead.

Harley is a piece of the background. That’s how she likes it. She fades against the hubbub of manic workers and loud saws. She doesn’t know the first thing about leading a job. The picture of professionalism - not. Work bibs, unhooked and loose around the top, one shoulder on, one off, barely hiding her form fitting crop top. The piece of cloth doesn’t even begin to hide the tattoos she’s scrawled on herself – memories of drunk nights with friends from days past, bruises covered by black ink and regrets of “not soon  enough’s ”. She knows how the mothers at the grocery store look at her because of it, bringing their children closer to their sides lease she corrupt them with her silly scribbles and exposed skin. 

Her feet make their way up the wooden steps. Each light step threatens the entire structure of the large wooden porch. The boards wiggle under her boots, warped from years of rain and heat. Harley bends over in front of the door, looking at the worst of the damage. The situation is worse than it first seemed.   
“Rot”, she mumbles to herself through her bubblegum before blowing out a large bubble. Sweet watermelon filling her nostrils. She bends further over, hanging upside down, inspecting the extent of the rot – it runs deep, before she can remove her hands from her pockets, she hears the squeak of the front door swinging open. Harley pops her large bubble loudly and looks between her legs, to see a woman, seemingly upside down, standing in the doorway looking up at her. 

Harley almost falls over scrambling to return to her straight position. The woman leaned casually against the doorframe, looking the blonde up and down.    
“Hi?”, the woman’s voice threatens Harley’s senses and she wants to run, fight or flight kicking in and leaving her before she knows what to do with the smooth voice. It doesn’t help that she has to look like _that_. Black skinny jeans plastered to mile long legs, a green cardigan thrown haphazardly, even sloppily, over a relaxed shirt. She leans against the chipped paint coating the wood of the door frame, the image burns into Harley’s mind.   
“May I help you?”, a _slight_ southern drawl comes crawling out of the woman’s throat, clearly not from Gotham. Harley speaks, or attempts to speak, shoving her hands further into her pockets, “H-hi”. The statement left her mouth before she could stop herself. That’s not what she was supposed to say. Not even close. She was _supposed_ to say “Hello, there! My name is Harley – I'm here for Nick Quinzel – the contractor you hired for your rehab project.” That is not what Harley said. All her words fell from her lips to the rotten boards below her feet, instead it coming out as, “Heh, I’m here for – the – uhh,” pointing at the house and gesturing to her work truck - “- work.”

The woman stands up from her relaxed position against the door frame. She offers a laugh. A real laugh at Harley’s display. Harley thinks the way she covers her mouth with her hand might kill her on the spot. She watches her red hair, full of life dance in the sun, an amused smirk on her face. “Come on in”, she says it with a slight smile, the laugh still prancing across her perfect mouth.

Harley feels heat rise to her face, undoubtedly a side effect of the warm April morning sun.

Harley complies with the woman’s gentle command and strides in behind her, she doesn’t miss the glisten of her green eyes when she meets her crystal blues. She keeps her steps long, trying to keep up with the woman’s long legs. 

Creaking hardwood – that'll definitely needs sanded down and refinished, but it is salvageable. The high ceilings are true to the time period that built the home, though water damage was apparent, none of it appears fresh to Harley’s eye. That’s a good thing. The intricate molding feels threatened by years of built up paint, mudding down the details. A real fireplace? They don’t make them like that anymore. 

Harley is sure that the entire place needs some serious love but it isn’t as horrible as she thought it’d be. Her boots shuffle on the floor, following the woman into the kitchen, the heart of the home. The entire room is old, very old, even down to the appliances. They are all a little off in color, mix-matched even, but all matching in their aesthetic. Harley’s eyes are on an off-white piece of metal that she believes to me an oven, whether or not it works at all is another question – why the hell would anyone keep something so old? The upkeep alone...   
“It’s a 1950s O’Keefe and Merrit”, the sweet voice breaks the silence. Harley looks up at her, confusion clear on her face.    
“The stove”, she motions towards the old white beast, it’s silver handles and knobs still shining despite its apparent age.    
“Coffee?”, the question lingers in the air, the sweet drawl of the woman’s words leaving Harley haunted.    
“Sure!”, Harley says it too enthusiastically, but the woman smiles despite the high pitch of her voice. 

She drove straight over from home; didn’t stop for her regular high-sugar energy drink and breakfast bar and, well, caffeine sounds just fuckin’ delightful. Harley watches as the woman moves to grab a metal carafe from the stove top and then over to the rickety cabinets, swinging one open aimlessly. Harley doesn’t take her eyes off of her as she stretches upward into the cabinet, grabbing for two porcelain mugs. Heat rises back to her pale cheeks as she sees her t-shirt ride over her waist under her cardigan. Her skin looks smooth, warm and for a moment too long, Harley wonders if she’d feel as smooth under her hands. As she turns, her hair sways under the dim lights in the kitchen, the early morning sun peeking through a cracked glass pane, it’s hypnotizing. Heat presses further onto Harley’s face, but pools in her lower stomach now. 

“Sugar? Milk? How do you like it?”, the question is innocent enough. It doesn’t stop the butterflies in her abdomen flip and bore down into her lower stomach.    
“I like both”, Harley offers an innocent smile in the woman’s direction. Harley pretends to not notice her perfectly trimmed eyebrow quirk as she smiled back at her. 

Harley keeps an eye on her as she disappears behind the large door of the  refrigerator before bringing over two mugs, followed by a small dish of sugar and a small pitcher of milk, already full. 

Harley takes another look around the kitchen, noticing a small window on the foremost wall with the perfect view of the greenhouse. She hears a gentle _cling_ that pulls her from her thoughts. Harley’s fingers play with the loose strap of her overalls as the woman gestures to the chair across from her. Harley runs her fingers over the wood of the chair, despite never stepping foot in the home before, Harley can’t help but feel some sort of kinship with the old walls, with the mysterious woman the house cradles.    
“Name’s Harley, by the way.” she reaches for one of the coffee cups, then the sugar. Green eyes watch as she her pours one, two, three, four...five.... six.... spoonsful of sugar into the cup. Harley watches her bring the glass to her lips. No sugar. No milk. There’s nothing overtly sensual about the act, but Harley feels heat pool in her stomach again.    
“Pamela Isley”, she speaks as she lowers the mug, lips plump and wet from drinking from the steaming cup. 

Harley realizes a little too late that she’s about to overfill her own coffee with milk – white liquid slowly moving down the side of the hot cup. 

“So, Pam-a-lamb", Harley takes a large gulp of light brown sugar water, swallowing any shame from the previous moments with it, grinning from ear to ear as she sits her cup down. “What’s the plan? This place is  _ real _ __ nice, but I think we can do amazing stuff here.” 

Pam smiles gently, standing up and walking to the window of the kitchen. Harley doesn’t dare take her eyes off the woman as she her slim arms wrap her cardigan tighter around herself, watches her perfect hips lean against her mint cabinets.    
“I have no clue, honestly”, she says it looking down at her bare feet, an embarrassed smile dances on her lips.   
“I’m not good at this sort of thing”, the woman moves her arms to open up and gestures around the room. Harley notices there isn’t anything on the walls, no photos, no knick-knacks on the shelves... Just a beautiful woman alone in a too big house.    
“I’m much better out there”, Pam turns around to face the window, bending over the counter. If she feels blue eyes taking in her form, she doesn’t change her position. Her long legs, toned thighs. The most perfect ass Harley has maybe ever seen in her life... Her mind wanders, curious what she looks like out of those jeans.    
The heat doesn’t leave her face as she finally speaks, “I saw the greenhouse – it's amazing – it looks homemade”.    
  
Pam turns too quickly, knocking Harley out of her illicit daydreams. Slender fingers move to the counter and hoists the redhead onto the counter so she’s sitting, her feet dangling above the floor – an innocent sight to take in by comparison of the provocative position Harley had been imagining her in just moments ago. She watches her feet dangle a good foot above the ground, kicking slightly back and forth, her coffee cup held between both of her hands. 

Harley is pulled to her like a magnet, standing before she even realizes it. Her work boots lightly plop across the floor as she moves closer to where Pam is sitting on the counter. Harley leans against the counter and looks up into Pamela’s mossy eyes. She looks back and for a moment, Harley feels like they’ve been here a million times. She notices those slender fingers play with a strand of red hair before tucking it neatly behind her ear, exposing her neck, milky and perfectly freckled. 

Harley wants to run her lips across those freckles, trace them with feather light kisses and get lost in a sea of red hair and mint. For a moment, she considers it, intoxicated by the ease in which Pamela moves through the world. 

“It was here already, actually”, Pamela glances out the window to the structure on the property. “I mean, granted, it was chipped and cracked – broken down.”    
She runs her long fingers across the hot glass.   
“All the wood was different colors – and it was totally over run”, this is the most Harley has heard the woman talk since they’ve met. “I cleaned her up pretty good”, she finishes with a satisfied smile before sipping at her cup again.

“Well,  ya did an  amazin ’ job, Pam”, Harley bounced off the side of the counter and brought her arms high above her head in a dramatic stretch. Through squinted eyes, she thinks she sees Pamela looking at the part of her sides and stomach that is left exposed from her top and loose overalls. She’s  _ positive  _ that’s what she saw when she opens her eyes to meet Pam’s and a deep blush creeps across her face before darting her eyes to the window.

Harley walks up to Pamela and offers her hand – a gesture to her to help her down from the counter. A gesture that Pamela accepts, reaching out without hesitation, slipping her slim hand over Harley’s small fingers. Her hands are smooth against Harley’s, but stern in her grip on the blonde. She bounces off of the counter and stands facing her. There’s a moment, a beat, where in another world, another time, they stood in this room, in this position – in another world, another time, Harley would reach up, grab Pamela’s neck, pull her in, drink her up. Take her here on the counter, love her wholly, completely. Leave her praying through moans and whimpers of “Oh, God”. 

In this life, however, Harley is a girl, broken and learning to exist in a world that never loved her back, that taught her the lesson of what damage loving hands can do. In this life, Pamela is a woman who commands the room, pulls everyone’s eyes towards her. A woman who makes a badass cup of coffee, a woman who deserves to be loved completely. To have someone worship her on their knees.

In this life, Harley was just a woman brought here to replace some sheetrock, patch some hardwood and paint some walls. In this life, Pamela was the woman who would pay her to do just that. 

“Wanna show me around? Maybe we can figure out  whatcha want out of this”, Pamela doesn’t let go of her hand right away, it’s a feeling that Harley hasn’t felt in a very long time. So long, in fact, it felt like she might whimper at the loss of contact when it came. Pamela finally slipped her hand from Harley’s fingers, replacing the contact with the sensation of running her fingers over her scalp. A curtain of red falls between her long fingers as she moves. Harley swears, in that moment, she’s never seen anything so beautiful. 

So, they walk, the property is large, two stories. In need of some updated drywall, the plaster walls aren’t holding up as well as they used to. Come to find out, horsehair doesn’t hold up as well as it used to. Some mud, a few small sheets, and that’s done. 

Of course, that leaves the issue of the stairs leading to the second floor. Some of them are cracked, Harley notes that it’s a real trip hazard. Pamela only nods, watches as Harley takes the lead, something Harley isn’t familiar with, but is finding comfort in. Pamela follows closely behind her, her coffee cup still in her hand, despite it being long empty.

Harley’s ponytail bounces as she walks, pink and blue faded ends move like a pendulum across her toned shoulders, she feels Pamela’s eyes on her as a tattoo threatens to peak from under the strap of her cropped top. 

“We’ll have to sand down all the floors, refinish them. It’s cheaper in the end then installing new an’ really, the floors look great. Just  gotta patch a few spots!”, Harley’s voice is chipper, her bubbling nature contrasting the physical nature of the job at hand. 

The pair make their way to the porch and she’s greeted with the same creak as earlier, the rotting boards swimming under her feet.    
“I think we gotta totally take this thing offa here,” the blonde twirls her long pony tail before looking up at Pam, standing there wide-eyed, in an unfamiliar world. 

“We can’t have a pretty lil’ thing like you fallin’ down this thing”, Harley smiles, the words slipping off of her tongue. She knows it’s inappropriate, she knows she’s not being professional. She knows she doesn’t want to be.    
Pam’s lip makes it way between her teeth, “Well, if you think it’s necessary...”   
  
“I do”, Harley says it and it’s almost a command, there’s no doubt – she’ll be tearing down this porch.    
“Then I’d say paint on the inside and out, and done!”    
  
Pamela walks with her to her truck, feet moving over the Earth slowly, as if the moment might end too soon. The sun now shining over the old home, highlighting the dingy siding and chipped paint.    
“Whole thing would take a few weeks at most, I think”, Harley moves her hand to the back of her neck, rubbing under her ponytail. She’s never done this before, but has a good idea of what’s next. 

“Let’s talk cost”, she offers softly, it’s the most awkward part of these conversations. Money. No one ever wants to talk money, especially Harley. Pam moves to hold up her hand, her empty mug “No need. Whatever it costs – I want you to do it.” 

It’s Harley’s turn to raise an eyebrow, “Well, maybe you want a second opinion. I’d hate to take advantage of you. Let me get ya a quote”, she feels like it’s the only right thing to do. She moves for the door of truck before a hand holds itself against the metal door, keeping it shut.   
“There’s no need, Harley – I'm hiring you.”    
Pam moves her hand to Harley’s arm, her fingers touching her tattoos, she gently leads her arm back to her side before letting go.   
“You’re not taking advantage of me if I want you to do it.” 

Harley’s mouth goes dry. Working next to Pamela might threaten her quality of work, it may even threaten her job. She doesn’t care, another moment alone with the woman feels like it could heal her scars, kiss her bruises away and leave her aching for more.

She looks at Pamela’s face, the sun dancing across her freckled nose.    
“Can you start tomorrow mornin?”, the Southern drawl coming out to play on the last word, Pamela looks embarrassed, flushing and tucking her hair behind her ear.    
  
“I’ll be here. 7 AM sharp, ma’am.”

Dinner comes as it does every evening. The sun moving over the hillside behind their small home, tucked neatly away on the outskirts of the city. Harley falters when her father asks her about the new job, tries to find appropriate words to describe the woman in the old house. She settles on, “She’s really nice, Pa!” and “It was great!”.    
Nick watches as Harley shovels her peas around on her plate, “So, I take it you’ll be taking the lead, kiddo?” 

Without looking up to see her father’s knowing gaze, she offers a nod.   



	3. stay

The next day came quickly – well, as quickly as “Betty” would allow, considering she didn’t  wanna get up and moving on time. Harley barely scrapes by, pulling in to Pam’s place just after 7 o’clock. 

She jumps out of the truck, adrenaline pulsing through her. She digs her work boots into the ground before stretching. Bending over and bouncing her knees, her ripped jeans threatening to come even more undone. Pamela watches from the porch as a young man piles out of the truck after Harley. He’s small, roughly Harley’s height, lean but muscular. Pamela chuckles to herself as she watches him follow her around the truck like a lost puppy. 

Harley jumps into the bed of the truck in one fluid motion, left over from days of dancing over a balance beam no doubt. Pamela walks down into the grass, cold dew meeting her feet. Harley swears that she’s some sort of plant goddess or somethin’. Moss would probably grow under her feet if she walked across the asphalt for too long. 

The blonde grabbed for her toolbelt, not breaking eye contact with the woman walking towards her. The  _ click  _ of the belt was the only indication that Harley had swiftly straddled the belt over her hips. She moved to gather her tools, slipping a hammer through one of the loops on a pouch hanging from her waist. 

For a moment, Harley forgot how to breathe. Watching lithe fingers move expertly across the silver trim on her truck. Moving like silk between blue and white. Harley bends over, still standing in the bed of her truck.    
“Good mornin’, Miss Isley”, she says with a wide grin. She stays bent over, keeping her eyes on Pam’s.   
“Who’s your friend?”, Pamela offered a slight nod in the direction of the boy. His hands too full, trying to carry too much to the porch. The women watched as he dropped several things against the grass. Unfortunately for him, his eyes met Harley’s as he kicked a large saw he had dropped previously.   
“Hah! Hey, Harv, honey, ya can _definitely_ make multiple trips. I really _don’t_ wanna buy a new circular saw this week. ‘K, babe?”

Harley involuntarily rolled her eyes, watching the boy turn ghost white. Pamela laughed lightly. Leaving Harley thinking that she would sacrifice ten circular saws if she could hear it more. 

She placed her palm on the side of the truck, jumping over the side, tools clanging together as she bounced her feet against the gravel. Face to face with Pamela, stuck again in a different moment in time. She can’t explain why her heart speeds up when Pam looks at her like that. 

All she knows is that the woman looks gorgeous this early. A baggy college sweater thrown over her body, jeans just as tight as she remembered – red hair wilder than yesterday – the sight left her wondering if she’d be just as beautiful with a moan on her lips, hair spread out over white pillows and Harley’s hand between her thighs.

“Eh, that’s Harvey... He’s a good kid. He’s... _ new _ ....”

“ _ New _ ”, as in the only one of the independent crew members that was willing to take a job under her and let’s be real, that was really only because he needed fast cash and he’d take $15 an hour from  _ anyone  _ at this point. 

Harley promptly jogs behind Harvey, her cropped t-shirt blowing in the Spring breeze, grabbing the electric saw off the ground as she goes. She picks it up, offering a sad smile to Pamela as she lifts it in her direction, waving it slightly. 

Harley works around Pamela, directing Harvey every step of the way. She shows him how to measure and cut the drywall. Demonstrates how to patch it in to the existing wall.    
Somehow keeping her femineity, despite the dirt and the _whurr_ of tools. She finds a way to still look cute, chewing her gum and swaying her hips to the music in her cordless headphones.   
Harley can feel eyes on her before Pamela busies herself in the background, sitting at a desk in the living room, scribbling furiously in several notebooks and flipping through tabs on a laptop. She’s curious, wants to learn everything she can about the woman. What’s she do? When’s her birthday? Why did she come to the city? Harley’s mind drowns with thoughts of the redhead, the day flies by.

To say she’s feeling accomplished is an understatement. No, Harley is proud. Proud of what they’ve done in one day. All the walls in room one  have been patched and the mud is sitting. Pamela turns around form her desk to see Harley, filthy, covered in dust and grime left over from crawling around in the bones of the old home for 6 hours of the day. A shit-eating grin plastered across her pink lips. Pamela sees Harvey, lying flat on the dusty hardwood. He looks far worse for wear than Harley. Pamela leaves them to it, minutes pass, leaving Pamela in her thoughts – desk in shambles, lost in the web of charts and numbers. 

“Welp, I think we oughta call it a day here, Pam-a-lamb!”   
As quickly Pamela forgot about her company, she remembered their existence, shooting up, frightened by the sudden voice breaking her out of her thoughts. With a small “ _eep_ _!_ ”, several papers flutter to the ground.

“ Ohmygoddammit ”, Pam speaks too quickly, her accent coming out stronger than normal – Harley cackles at the run-on cursing. Then giggles again at Pamela’s askew glasses. 

“I’m sorry, Pam! Didn’t mean ta spook ya!”, Harley bends, picking up the papers that fell to the ground in Pamela’s surprise. She sees something about patents and plant-based somethin’ or other before handing it over gently. Pamela reaches out, taking them sheepishly and straightening out her sweater before pushing her glasses to rest on her head, pulling her hair back in the process. She stands up to meet Harley – Harley is dripping sweat.   
“You’re _filthy_ ”, Pamela says it with an air of surprise but it catches Harley off guard just the same.   
Harley laughs from her stomach, “Yeah, Pamela, that’s normally what happens when ya work.” She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand and runs her hand over her tied back hair, smoothing it out and toying with the end of her pony tail. There’s something sweet in the interaction, life a child showing their parent something they are proud of – something sweet.

Pamela’s freckled face turns pink, noticing Harley’s toned arms as she sweeps her hand through her hair.   
“I’m just pickin’ on ya, Pam.”   
Pamela nods, but decides to let the silence last a little longer. Harley offers her hand to help Pamela out of her seat and walks her into the room where the pair had been working all day. There is new drywall all over the room and it’s all covered in white, wet slop.    
“Now, the wet stuff is called ‘mud’, it takes a while ta dry, so try not to touch it and it’ll set up real nice!”, she says it with a smile, pointing to show Pamela.    
“Tomorrow I’ll have Harv come in an’ sand down the mud so it’s smooth. Then it’ll be ready to be painted – _meanin_ _’_ this room will be _done-zo_!”   
Pamela can’t hide the disbelief on her face.    
“It goes so quick”, she says it under her breath, but it’s enough for Harley to hear.    
Harley smiles and nods, “It does.”

There’s something left unsaid in the statement.    
  
The unsaid things stay in the room as they make their way back to the living area of the house.   
“You must be burning up, Harley. Let me get you something to drink before you leave?”, Harley nods.    
They walk into the kitchen; the room Harley is most familiar with at this, the room she knows. Pamela moves to get a glass from the cabinet and Harley sees again how Pamela seems to have a hard time reaching all the cabinets in her new home. It’s adorable, sweet even, and gives Harley a chance to watch Pamela’s baggy sweater move up her body, showing her lean stomach more than before. Leaving Harley to think about what her hands might feel like slipping that sweater over untamed red hair.

She watches the water fall from the faucet, dripping around the rim of the cup in Pamela’s hands, leaving one of fingers glistening and wet. 

“Thank ya, kindly, Miss Isley”, Harley jokes, but Pamela can tell she is kind. Even if the thanks are given with a tone of sarcasm, she knows the intention is there. Harley sets the class down on the middle of the table, taking a step closer to Pam. There it is again, something left in the air, something unsaid – it chokes Pamela.   
“I better get Harvey home, the boy’s ‘bout half dead at this point”, she says it with a small laugh – Pamela wants to tell her to stay. She’ll call a cab for the kid. She wants to tell her to kiss her instead.

  
Instead, Pam walks her to the truck. Harley throws her belt off and into the bed of the truck, Harvey has already made his way into the front seat, eyes closed and air cranked up.   
“See you tomorrow, Harley”, she speaks and she words are so soft Harley feels like she could break the words if she spoke. She feels fingers dance across her wrist, making their way down to her own fingertips before letting go. Harley offers a nod and a smile.

Harley doesn’t look back at Pamela as she climbs into the truck and turns on the radio, slipping her sunglasses over her baby blues.   
“ _WAKE UP HARV!!_ ”    
Pamela hears her yelling from the truck as she backs out of the driveway and makes her way down the road. She can’t help but smile, she wiggles her toes into the grass before trotting back onto the porch, maybe her home doesn’t have to feel so empty after all.


	4. can i go where you go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short one

A week of work under her belt. A week of small touches from Pamela. A week of watching Pamela work at her desk. A week of filling the house with noise, laughter.    
Harley was honest when she told her father it was going well. Harvey is learning fast and proving to be a competent worker. Every day she brings him a giant energy drink and he seems to appreciate the gesture.    
Pamela has notices when Harley picks on the boy, he’s starting to be a smartass back. The interactions make Pamela smile, her home feels full of life, something she hasn’t had since she was a young child.

Sometimes she creeps past them as they work on the stairs. Sometimes she drags her fingers across Harley’s shoulders as she sneaks by, offering her a sweet smirk when round, blue eyes look up at her. Sometimes she playfully runs her fingers through the end of her ponytail just to see how she will react on any given day. Harley seems to like the attention. She leans into Pamela’s small touches more with each passing day.

Pamela takes glances at Harley from over her glasses as she works, she knows she’s not good at hiding it, but she muses that that might be part of the fun. Harley smiles when she sees Pam looking at her. She’s been caught more than once at this point, but she doesn’t stop. Something about the blonde just demands the attention of the room, demands Pamela’s attention, unwavering and spoiling. The smile, the toned body...the tattoos? She’s like something that Pamela would have imagined up in her wildest dreams – she was unbelievable, like she may have been a cheerleader in another life, before the dyed hair and the ink on her body. Her bubbly personality and delicate features contradicted the work she did – tough and precise, dedicated. Weakness didn’t live in Harley – that was apparent in all she did. 

The days pass, the company of good people warms Pamela. She grows towards them like a plant in the sun, reaching for more  every day .

“Go grab the chop saw, Harv!”, Harley sends the young man on his way with a comical gesture to the truck.   
Pamela pushes her glasses onto her head, choosing her words carefully before speaking.   
“You’re an excellent teacher”, she turns on a dim, facing Harley quickly, straddling the back of her chair.   
Harley watches Pamela move her thighs against the wooden sides of her chair. She didn’t know you could be envious of a chair until that moment, but, God, was she.

Pamela moved her hair into a high ponytail, pulling a hair band from her wrist and lazily tying it back.   
She watches Harley look at her, the need to fill the space between them with something besides known glances and small touches overwhelms here.   
“Just so you know”, she adds, sliding her glasses back to her nose. Harley’s mouth opens, but words don’t find their way from her mouth. Pamela feels heat on her face, pushing loose tendrils back behind her ears before sticking her piece of buttered toast into her mouth, begging to distract herself from the fluttering in her chest. She smiles at Harley, hoping she’s hiding the tightness in her stomach to the outside world, because inside, she feels like if she got up too fast, she might fall to her knees. 

The blonde hops off of the dirty floor where she’s been chopping wood for the stairs. Her ripped jeans covered in sawdust; her t-shirt painted in white splotches. She practically bounces over to Pamela. “Pam... Pamela. I’d love to have you for dinner sometime”. Harley knows how it sounds, she doesn’t regret saying it, but she pretends to reach down and dust off her knees anyway. “You have to eat more than bread and coffee,” she grins, showing her white teeth, her sharp canines offering a glint under the light of Pam’s lamp. 

  
Pam shoots her a look over her glasses, toast still hanging out of her lips. She chomps down and waves the toast in Harley’s direction. “You cooking, then?”, the question was sarcastic in nature, meant to jest and poke, as they always do at each other. Walking the line between innocent flirtation and “I think I knew you I may have known you in another life”. 

  
“I can.”

The words are serious. There’s no hint of a joke on her lips, curling up at the edges – a knowing smile showing itself. Different than her playful grins after getting in a successful jab, different than the smile she throws Harvey when he fucks up and she laughs at him. 

  
“Be here – Saturday, 7 o’clock.”


	5. religion's in your lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smutty warning here

It takes Harley too long to leave her house. Longer than she had planned. Her mind told her that Pamela knew what she looked like, to stop being ridiculous – to pick an outfit and go. Unfortunately for Harley, she couldn’t listen to her brain. Not when her heart threatened to leap right out of her chest and heat pooled between her legs every time she thought about Pamela straddling her lap the way she straddled her desk chair when they would speak to each other in the living room or when Pamela would push herself against Harley’s center as she wiggled by on the stairs before running her fingers across her shoulder. The feeling of her hands snaking over Pamela’s body jumped into her thoughts when she lay in bed at night, slipping her hand against herself, pushing fingers against her clit, quietly gasping, begging for a touch she had yet to learn. But, God, how she wanted to learn it. Memorize it, trace her lips over each dip of Pamela’s body and taste her as she came against her mouth, hear her name whispered against her skin, feel long fingers in her hair. 

Harley scolded herself, her gaze coming back to her reflection in the mirror. First, dinner. Dinner is good. She so desperately wanted to make a good first impression on the woman. Well, granted, it wasn’t her  _ first  _ impression, not as Harley the woman she had hired to help restore her home to its former glory... no, but her first impression as  _ Harley _ , the woman who was learning to trust, to love and yearn for the touch of another once again. 

The ride to Pamela’s home was different in the evening, the Spring air bit differently as the sun started to settle behind the trees. The ride was different, full of intention. No Harvey, no dust, no belt. No, nothing to hide sneaking glances behind or soft touches. 

The ride to Pamela’s home was different, filling the air in her truck with “what if’s” that seemingly dissipated as “Betty” purred into the gravel driveway she had come to know so well. 

Harley couldn’t tell you how she got to the porch, standing in front of Pamela’s front door. Her memories of walking through the front yard hazy, her focus shifting to the Eastern breeze kissing the skin left exposed through the holes in her jeans. 

Harley couldn’t tell you what Pamela said as she opened the door, she could only tell you the way her lips looked, painted red and smiling at her. She could only tell you how the red head looked, standing there, her white dress hugging her in the right spots... the way her cardigan wrapped perfectly around her small wrists as she held the door open for Harley. She could only describe to you the way the gasp that escaped Pamela’s mouth sounded as she grabbed her waist and pulled her body into her own. 

No, Harley couldn’t tell you how they got here – Pamela against the door of her house with Harley’s lips on her neck – her hands pulling Pam’s thigh to her hip, a soft hand pushing up her white dress. She could only tell you how it felt, pressing her hips into the woman, light whimpers playing against her ear.

“Take me to bed”, Pamela spoke the words against Harley’s lips so quietly it felt like she might have imagined it. Her lipstick left sweet marks on Harley’s pale skin as she worked her way down her neck. Harley was so lost in a sea of red, the idea of moving from their position against the door pained her, but no more than the idea of not being inside of Pamela for even a moment longer.    


Pamela led Harley upstairs, holding her hand gingerly the entire way. The trip to the bedroom felt like it took hours, miles traveled, a deep ache traveling down to her stomach with every step she wasn’t running her fingers through red hair.

The door farthest down the hallway creaked open as Pam slid her hand over the dark, heavy, wood. The sight behind the door was like a well-kept secret, much like Pamela herself. The room housed varying greenery, hanging from the ceiling in a stacked manner on macramé plant holders, plants sitting in their happy homes on shelves and in corners. A bright moment of life in a home that needed so much of it. 

Harley laid Pamela down on the bed, kissing her slowly, tenderly, taking in the taste of black coffee and mint. Red hair splayed across her white sheets, contrasting against them like a cardinal playing in the snow on the  mountains . 

The blonde reached down, cupping Pamela’s face in her hand before sliding her tongue against her red lips. Pamela let out a small moan and opened her mouth, deepening the kiss. Harley swept her tongue into Pamela’s mouth, losing herself in the sensation of the woman’s tongue on her own. She felt Pamela run her hands up her back, before looping them around her neck, pulling Harley’s body down onto her. 

Harley moved to straddle Pamela’s thigh, the small moment of friction causing her to moan against Pamela’s open mouth. She pulled back, a gasp laying on her lips. The brush of Pamela’s lips against hers pulled another whimper from her. 

Harley sat up, her hand resting on Pamela’s flat stomach, panting slightly, her flushed face burning hot. Pam looked up into Harley’s eyes and Harley swore she felt a deep-rooted hunger looking back at her. The look in Pamela’s eyes brought wetness pooling between her thighs. She whimpered, grinding her center down onto Pamela’s thigh, looking for immediate reprieve from the ever-growing want settling in her lower stomach. Pamela bucked back, pushing herself against the woman on top of her. 

Pam moaned and it was a song on Harley’s ears, she wanted to hear it over and over. Harley returned her focus to Pamela’s mouth, sucking on her bottom lip lightly before moving her lips down her neck and nipping at her collarbone. Harley’s hands seemed to move on their own, pushing up the edges of Pamela’s dress once more, her fingertips running over the smooth skin of her thighs, dragging her nails lightly along the sensitive skin where her underwear laid. 

Pamela whimpered against Harley’s neck as she felt the woman’s fingers play against the fabric on her hips. The cadence of Pam’s torrid breath on her neck was almost enough to send her over the edge. 

She felt the woman under her reaching between them, moving the button on her jeans in a desperate plea, she finally spoke in ragged breaths, “Off.”

Harley obliged, sliding her body off of Pamela and slipping out of her jeans before climbing back onto the bed and straddling Pam’s hips. The woman lay under her, a desperate grip on Harley’s t-shirt, both hands holding it at her hips, bunching the fabric in her long fingers. In that moment, Harley was positive, she’d never seen a more beautiful sight. 

She moved to set Pamela up, keeping her position over her. She grabbed at her top, pulling the loose cardigan off of her before slipping her dress over her head. She reached around to hold the back Pamela’s head, running her fingers over the small hairs that lay on the back of her neck. 

Pam smiled up at Harley before leaning up to place a slew of chaste kisses over her face and lips.    
“I feel like we’ve been here before”, she said it through small kisses, a whisper of something she had only thought before now. 

Harley smiled against her shower of kisses before lowering the woman down on the mattress again and grinding her center into the woman under her. She reached down to grab her hands and hold them above her head, gently pressing down, holding her in place for just a moment.   
“Oh, Pammie”, another push of her hips and Pamela was whining, begging under her already. “I think we have been.”   
She felt the wetness against her underwear slide against Pamela’s with every move of her hips. Harley moved to straddle her thigh again, pushing her knee against the warmth between Pam’s legs.    
“Baby...”, the last word before Harley moved her lips down the woman’s sternum and then to her breasts, kissing lightly against her right nipple before running her wet tongue run over sensitive skin. 

Pamela grabbed for Harley’s hair, subconsciously pushing her head down, encouraging her take her nipple completely into her mouth. Harley complied, sucking the skin in between her lips. Pam moaned loudly, pulling at Harley’s blonde hair, a tangle of pink and blue falling against pale skin. 

Harleen moved her hand to her other breast, squeezing lightly, her mouth moaning against Pamela’s breast as she whimpered soft “pleases” into the air. Her mouth found its way to her stomach, kissing the skin that lay before her. As she moved her mouth against Pamela, she felt her muscles tighten as her lips moved lower, touching the sensitive skin on her stomach. Harley’s hands moved to Pam’s thighs, gently running her fingertips over her skin, before moving to her underwear, white cotton, wet with want. 

Harley pushed her palm between Pamela’s thighs, running her lips across the skin on her stomach one more time. She could feel wetness against her hand and moved her fingers gently, experimenting, finding the movement would illicit the loudest moan from the woman under her. 

“Babe”, it came out of her mouth like a breath against Pam’s stomach. The woman canted her hips against Harley’s hand, her head back against the pillows, her mouth open, pants escaping her lips. 

Harley removed her hand, receiving an immediate gasp in protest. Before Pamela could speak, the woman above her hooked her fingers into the band of her underwear, giving it a questionable tug. Without speaking Pamela lifted her hips, allowing Harley to strip her underwear from her body.

“No fair”, Pamela half giggled out, reaching for Harley’s shirt. Harley laughed gently against the woman, allowing her to pull her shirt from her petite form. Her exposed position left her hidden tattoos visible to Pamela for the first time. She felt the woman’s fingers dance across black ink.    
“You’re so beautiful, Harls.”   
A statement - an affirmation - so pure, so unconditional, that it asked for nothing back in return.    
Harley intended on giving Pamela everything she could, her body and soul – to worship at her hips like an altar. 

And that’s just what she did. Pamela’s words singing in her ears as she moved to her knees, kissing down her hips, her thighs. Scraping her teeth warmly across the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh before positioning herself between the red head’s legs. 

“Pammie, you’re everything”, she spoke against her hip, leaving tender kisses against her as he moved her hand up between her thighs. 

Pamela let out a loud gasp as Harley’s fingers finally made contact with her clit. Harley’s fingers slide gently against her skin. Pam instinctively moved her hips against Harley’s hand, seeking more from her.    
“Baby, you’re so wet.”

The statement came from her lips as she pushed a finger deep into Pamela. Harley let a moan of her own escape her lips as she plunged another finger into Pamela’s wetness. Her hand moving in a slow rhythm, her thumb circling her clit lazily, taking in every sound the woman made under her, every movement she begged for as her hips moved in time with Harley’s fingers.

The blonde slowed her movements to a painful crawl, before slowing pulling each of her fingers out of Pamela, one at a time. Pam grabbed for Harley’s hand as she moved it from her body.    
“H-Harls, please...”, Harley caught Pamela’s eyes in hers, dark green clouded over, the back of her hand draped over her swollen lips. 

Harley brought her fingers to her lips, Pamelas breath hitched in her throat before a whimper, “B-baby, please.”

Harley slipped her index finger between her lips, sucking Pamela’s wetness off of one finger, then another. Harley didn’t give Pam time to process what she had witnessed before she dipped her head between the woman’s thighs, her hot breath causing her hips to move towards Harley’s mouth, begging for her touch, her kiss, her tongue. 

She delivered just that to Pamela, pushing her tongue against her clit without a second thought, licking smooth strokes against her as the bundle of nerves hardened under her tongue.    
Harley moved her tongue further down, tasting as much of Pamela as possible. She grabbed at her thighs, wrapping her leg over her shoulder and urging Pam to ride her tongue. One thing Harley knew, she could taste Pamela forever, listen to her moan her name until the world came crashing down around them. She wanted to feel Pamela’s fingers in her hair until she couldn’t move her mouth anymore, until she couldn’t worship her for another second. 

Pam’s moans became harsher, her voice rasping out, “Harley, oh, _God_!”    
A prayer on her lips as Harley swept circles across her clit, moving her over the edge and then some – her hips lifting off of the bed and against Harley’s mouth. Blue eyes looked up from between Pamela’s legs to meet a forest of green, the exchange bringing a moan from Harley’s lips as Pamela rode her orgasm out against her tongue. 

Naked, sheets tangled between their legs, the women laughed into the night, smiling into each other’s hair, tracing outlines of sweet nothings on each other’s skin until the wee hours of the morning. Harley wrapped her arms around the slender woman next to her, speaking against her hair.    
“I have to work tomorrow.”   
The words were only spoken out of formality, both the girls know what the next day holds – Harley hammering wood planks downstairs and a lot of coffee. 

“Y’know”, Pamela grazes her lips across Harley’s ear, moving to straddle the blonde. Red hair built a curtain around them as she lowered her face to meet Harley’s. “It’d be easier if you just stayed.”   
  
Harley swept the girl up, changing their positions and burying her face into the nap of Pamela’s neck. Sweet laughter filled the empty house, as Harley tickled Pamela with her face, nuzzling into her exposed skin. “I was hopin’ ya’d say that, Pammie.”

Harley couldn’t pinpoint the specific moment her life started falling into place, but she could tell you it started mid-April, with a cup of coffee, six spoonsful of sugar and an ocean of red hair and a forest of green. 


End file.
